So hopefully not cliche American in Paris stuff because hey, if you're not Adam Gopnik, then why try?

lundi, avril 24, 2006

Brawl in the 16ème - Y'all!!

Sunday, I went for a brisk jog. You read that correctly. Moi, jogging. Mais oui. See, Handsome is quite the runner, and those green eyes can make me do just about anything. But I am still quite the novice. Like six minutes and 20 seconds kind of novice. On Sunday, I had just gotten back from my feeble attempt, and when I went to close my apartment door behind me, the wind from the open window slammed it shut, making a rather loud noise. Oops! I thought. Sorry, neighbors!

In one of those weird coincidence moments, at that very second, I heard someone out in the hallway, trying to slip a note under my door. I picked it up, curious. It read:

(Translation : Dear Neighbors, Pleaze [sic] be a little more discreet on Sunday mornings especially when closing your shutters and in other akts. [sic] Thaynk you. [sic])My first reaction was that the "akts" in question were a direct reference to the kind of sport Handsome and I had been practicing before the jogging, one at which I have much more endurance - and loads more practice. But I was almost sure I had been more "discreet" than usual. I felt a slight moralistic reproach in the "on Sunday mornings", as if my use of "Oh God!" in the context in which I had uttered it had been particularly blasphemous to the ears of this mystery person. I tried to remember how loud I had been and who could have possibly heard. I felt myself blush. Then, the shutter part threw me. I never touch mine. I think they're a pain to close and open all the time, so I just leave them open. Surely this was not a note from my neighbors across the street, who had somehow gotten into my building, asking me to close the shutters the next time I felt like getting a little closer to heaven?

I read it again. I noticed the "ç" in "merci" twice, and the missing "e" in "acts". This person can't be French, I thought, and if they are, shame, shame! This is not from my neighbors across the street, I reasoned. This is not about people seeing into my window. This is not even about how best to praise the Lord on his special day. This is about noise. Shutter closing noise. Which I did not make.

Handsome came back from his hour-long run, and I showed him the note.

"Tell me I'm reading this wrong," I said, "and that this is not about us and our warm-up session this morning."

He read the note quickly and handed it back. "Don't worry," he said, "this isn't about us."

"So it's not that anyone heard us or saw us and they're complaining cause it's Sunday? This is to everybody, right?"

"Yeah," he said, "and even if it were to us, who cares? Whoever it is needs to lighten up."

"Whew!" I said, relieved. "I didn't want to make enemies with my neighbors so soon."

"Besides," he said, taking me in his arms and smiling devilishly, "you were a lot quieter than usual."

Later that evening coming back from a movie, we were tired, and contrary to our habit, decided to take the elevator to my floor. Lo and behold, taped to the wall was proof we were not the only targets of the Sunday morning note.

(Translation: Sir or Madam, This makes two times you have accused me anonymously. At least have the courage to sign your name. For your information, 1) I never close my shutters 2) I was out of town this weekend. [NOT SIGNED])

"Ooo!" I said, "things are heating up on Rue de la Pompe!!"

"Look, the fool lost his argument cause he didn't sign himself!" Handsome pointed out. "He would have won if he'd just put 'third floor, door on the right,' or whatever. Like 'come tell it to my face, fucker!' "

"Mnnhhh hhn!!" I said, sucking my teeth and swinging my neck like I was back in the ATL, "there gon' be some fur flying tonight!"